Scars
by Mina Shelley
Summary: An April Fool's Day prank gone horribly wrong. No slash. Rated T, but close to M for dark themes.


Scars

That poor animal.

I was really not surprised that – upon entering the sitting room after a long day at my practice – I found Gladstone in a state of seeming death. I couldn't help but to remember the first time I had met Mr Sherlock Holmes, and the look of pure delight that flashed across his features at my mention of the bull pup. I hadn't understood it at the time, but it was more than clear now. After all, there were some experiments that even he wasn't stupid and reckless enough to test on himself.

And so my poor dog took them on instead.

These experiments had been growing more and more frequent in the last few weeks. My friend and colleague had been without a case for some time now, and he was growing more and more desperate for a release from the boredom. After all, his "mind rebels at stagnation."

I checked the dog's pulse, and it was there, albeit slower than it should have been. Then I noticed the surprise that was waiting for me. The dog's tongue had turned blue. A bright and ostentatious blue. I couldn't help rolling my eyes.

One might not expect it, but April Fools Day was Sherlock Holmes' favourite holiday. Usually, he followed through with the French tradition of hiding fish everywhere, and I was surprised when I arrived at my practice and none of my patients of the day awkwardly pointed out that there were paper fish attached to the back of my jacket.

It seemed that my flatmate's lack of work had given him the opportunity to be more creative this year.

I picked Gladstone up in order to move him somewhere that he wouldn't be trampled, and found a note on a small paper fish under him. It read:

"Watson,

"On investigation with Lestrade. Likely to be gone for some time.

"S Holmes"

I shoved the note in my pocket with a frustrated sigh. When I was certain that the dog would at least survive until morning, I moved to my writing desk to begin working on another case write up. Of course, as I should have expected, all of my writing materials were gone. Instead, I found nothing but paper fish...

It was then that I hatched my plan.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I remembered the day quite clearly. Holmes had been out doing God knows what all day, so I'd been left alone to entertain his latest client until he returned.

She was a nervous woman. The reasons why do not bear repeating. But, she coped with it by knitting. A lot. In the six hours that we spent waiting for my companion, she knitted three scarves and half a pair of mittens. Her knitting needles worked so quickly that I worried she might start a fire. Then again, maybe I could put it out with the soaked and dripping coat that my flatmate dropped on the floor as he entered the sitting room.

I went to pick it up before Mrs Hudson could come by it, leaving my friend to his work. "Ah! Mrs Miller! How good to-"

The coat still in my hands and soaking through my sleeves with each passing moment, I paused in my action to see why my companion had done the same.

He was frozen there, mid-step, eyes focussed in on the woman's hands. After a long silence, he cleared his throat and barely managed a "Would you please put that away?" I don't know which surprised me more, the "please," or the crack of his voice.

The woman complied, of course, shoving the crafts into her handbag, and business carried on as usual. Still, I couldn't help noticing that his eyes kept straying to the bag.

I thought that it might be a bit rude and improper to inquire about his actions, but I continued to wonder.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mrs Hudson had been cleaning up paper fish all afternoon, and was happy to help when I requested her assistance. Holmes had not been exaggerating when he said that he would be out late, providing me with plenty of time to manufacture my grand design.

Alright, so it wasn't quite a "grand design," but it was certainly more of a prank than one might expect from an Englishman of my age. Certainly, this was all a little juvenile, but I _was _dealing with Holmes. I couldn't help but to imagine the expression on his face.

He would first travel to the mantle to light a pipe, as he always did when returning late. Though I was certain that my plan would stop him. Growing agitated, he would occupy his mind with his chemistry experiments, but I would stop him again. His temper rising, he would seek to isolate himself in his room, but be stopped again. Of course, he would figure out how this had all come about, and want to confront me. Again, he would be stopped. Finally, he would give up and decide to leave. Of course, I couldn't let that happen either.

Hearing his footsteps on the stairs, I quickly gathered my things and the dog, and hid away in my room. I pressed my ear to the door, waited, and listened.

The door opened and shut.

He walked to the mantel. Stopped

A loud noise that I couldn't distinguish.

He walked to his chemistry table. Stopped.

The breaking of glass. Maybe this had gone too far.

He rushed to the door of his room. Stopped.

He stumbled to my own door. Stopped.

He ran to the door: the only exit. Stopped.

I threw open my door when I heard him fall to the ground.

Immediately, I regretted everything.

He had pulled himself over to the settee, leaning against it, and pulling his legs in as if forming a barrier between himself and the world that was closing in around him. He buried his face in his knees, blocking out what he'd seen. I approached slowly, noting that he was breathing much faster than normal. I could practically hear his heart beating.

"Holmes?" Slowly, carefully, I reached out a hand to steady him.

He flinched away from me, and the cracked whisper came, "Make them go away, John... Please...."

I don't know that I ever moved so fast. I gathered the knitting needles from around the apartment, stowing them away out of sight.

"Holmes?" He didn't respond. "Holmes, they're gone." He was quite literally paralyzed with fear. "It's alright, Holmes."

He still didn't look up, but shook his head and muttered, "No...it's not."

"Please, Holmes, tell me what's wrong." My hand met his shoulder, and he didn't move away this time. Instead, he pushed himself up on shaky legs and attempted to isolate himself, preferring the privacy of his room to being in the presence of more questions. I almost let him go, until I was forced to keep him from falling into the mess of broken glass.

I moved him back to the settee, wrapping the thick afghan around his shoulders and bringing back a glass of brandy. I didn't know what was wrong with him, but he was showing some signs of shock, and I wasn't willing to take any chances. He downed the glass and barely managed a "Thank you, Watson."

I knelt before him, taking one of his hands in my own, forcing him to look at me. "Holmes, please talk to me."

He looked away and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Watson. I-"

"Holmes."

He was silent for a moment, gray eyes distant. Finally, he met my gaze, and I could tell that something was very wrong. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing before he responded, "It's...a long story."

I pushed myself up to sit beside him, putting on my best reassuring smile, "I have plenty of time, my friend."

After a moment, he nodded, staring with more focus than seemed possible at his hands as he began. "It all started with Violet, I suppose." At my questioning look, "She was my...mother." He visibly flinched, struggling to say the word. "I never actually met her. But, I was told. I was told that she was a good person. I was told that everyone loved her. Sherrinford...umm, my father, most of all." His hands fidgeted nervously. "Violet...died bringing me into the world... And it...crushed him. Mycroft said that he was never the same after I was born. Whereas my brother was cold to me, Sherrinford treated me with enough burning rage for the both of them and Violet. 'She never wanted you,' he would say, 'She knew that you would only be trouble.' Apparently, she went so far as to attempt an abortion with...knitting needles."

"Holmes, I-" I didn't know what to say. Should I apologize for the cruel prank I had played? Should I attempt to console him for these past horrors? Should I be offended that he hadn't told me – his closest friend – all of this already?

He shook his head, banishing the thoughts from my mind. His hands stilled as he stared at them, "As a child, I always used to examine my hands for scars." A small, humourless laugh escaped his lips, and I couldn't understand why. "I think that...what always bothered me the most was the questions. Why didn't she want me? Did she know that she wouldn't live if I did? Was her death really my fault? Could the beautiful, kind, caring, loving woman I'd been told about really still be all of that, yet want to kill her child? And, if she _was_ all that Sherrinford said she was, what hope was there that anyone else could possibly love me?" I could see that he was trying to hold back the tears. "So I gave up. I realized that it was impossible for someone to love me. I suppose that I really am the cold, unfeeling machine that you write about. Maybe it would have been better if she had survived to share the emotions that I am so incapable of? Maybe it would be better if she were here instead of me...."

I struck him.

For a moment, I was as shocked as he looked, but quickly pulled myself together. I don't know when I rose to my feet, but I was suddenly standing before him, vehemently expressing myself. "How dare you... How dare you, Holmes! That you could ever think that you were unloved, uncared for! What about me? What about Mrs Hudson? What about all the lives that you have saved and mended through your work? How dare you doubt – even for a moment – the validity of your existence!"

I fell back onto the settee, spent.

Finally, I was able to meet his eyes. The tears that he had tried so hard to hold back finally broke through. Just barely.

I expected him to yell, scream, scold. I expected him to hit me, or to force me from the apartment into the cold London night.

I hadn't expected the hug.

He leaned forward, quickly capturing me in his long arms, clinging to me for dear life. He was trying to stop his shaking, to hold back the sobbing. He just barely managed a "Thank you, Watson."


End file.
